


Senseless, Senses

by justasock_x



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Blood, Bottom!Jaskier, Character Study, Come Eating, Felching, Fingering, M/M, Rimming, Scenting, Sex Magic, Top!Geralt, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justasock_x/pseuds/justasock_x
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier become aware of each other one sense at a time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 192





	Senseless, Senses

**Author's Note:**

> All knowledge comes from the show, other fics, and cursory Google.

  * **Sight**



The first time Jaskier sees Geralt is not the first time Geralt sees Jaskier. The bard is loud and ostentatious, his voice and laughter carrying over the din of the crowded tavern. Geralt sees a young man with hope in his eyes and love in his heart, and his own - a brittle, cracked thing - twists in his hollow chest. The boy is all sunshine and warmth, even dodging vegetables with a cheery grin and an apologetic wave of one long-fingered hand. He is absolutely beautiful in a gangly, awkward way, and one day he will grow into a tall, trim, gorgeous man; Geralt can tell. 

“Perhaps another night,” the bard says jovially to the unimpressed crowd before getting himself an ale. Geralt continues to watch him with mild interest, and feels distantly surprised when the bard dares to approach him. 

He hums a non-answer in response to every one of Jaskier’s probing questions, but the bard insists on following him to hunt the devil in Posada. He’s a silly fool, all of eighteen and still green in the ways of the world, but Geralt can’t bring himself to send him away. The Witcher keeps waiting for the scent of fear to hit his nose, but it never comes. Even when they are tied back to back, Filavandrel staring down at them with all the fury of a wronged king set on vengeance, the bard seems unnaturally unconcerned about their circumstances. 

Jaskier hums under his breath as they leave the elves, strumming his new lute and smelling positively potent with happiness and satisfaction. Geralt’s nose twitches.

“Have you not an ounce of self-preservation?” the Witcher asks, unable to take the incessant noise any longer.

Jaskier considers this as he glances up to meet Geralt’s gaze. The Witcher looks every bit a golden god in the warmth of the sun’s setting rays, and the bard feels his heart trip a little in his chest. Geralt sees Jaskier first, but Jaskier is the one who first takes the time to study the Witcher and decide he likes what he finds.

The silence stretches until the bard answers, his eyes returning to his lute as Geralt’s return to the Path ahead. 

“I knew you’d keep me safe.”

They say no more. That evening, Geralt makes camp with Jaskier along a shallow stream. The Witcher does not have a tent, but the bard seems unconcerned as he sprawls out on the ground. Geralt watches him watch the stars. Jaskier is bathed in the moonlight, glowing and ethereal, his hair and cheeks dusted with silver. Geralt falls asleep quickly, tired from a contract finished yesterday and not enough food or rest between hunts. Jaskier stays awake and watches the Witcher sleep, sitting cross-legged on his borrowed blanket with his chin resting on his steepled hands.

He knows he could write a thousand ballads about the curve of Geralt’s rare smiles, the strong set of his jaw, the full weight of his golden stare, and still never do justice to the real thing, and it does not bother him that this is true. He decides, watching the rise and fall of Geralt’s sturdy chest, that he will follow Geralt, and he will see every part of this man that he can.

  * **Sound**



Geralt steadfastly refuses to admit how much he misses the chatter of a certain little songbird as he camps in the forest outside of Lyria. Roach grazes sedately as the Witcher sets up camp. He hunts fresh game when Jaskier travels with him, but since they parted after the Cintran betrothal feast he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the bard. It means less time amongst the stink of humanity - Geralt prefers to camp outside of towns, while Jaskier always demanded a fresh bed and hot meal if they were within vicinity of any settlement. He reminds himself that it’s easier and cheaper to continue on the Path alone while he eats a handful of dried venison. 

The sounds of the forest rise as the moon hits her apex in the sky, and Geralt settles on his bedroll to meditate until sunrise. The crickets chirp in the background, and he hears scuffling in the underbrush as small mammals chase one another in the dark. Geralt relaxes into his meditative state as the night wraps around him. All is calm until he hears a piercing scream and the clash of steel on steel. Golden eyes snap open as the shouting continues, and Geralt finds himself on his feet with his sword in hand between one heartbeat and the next. He takes off in the dark, keen golden eyes taking in details as he rushes to the source of the commotion. He emerges into a small clearing and the inhabitants all face him with varying expressions on their faces.

Two men have cornered a smaller one against a sturdy tree. A fourth man is dead on the ground. A finely wrought dagger with an ornate handle sticks out of his left eye. Geralt approaches the trio that remain, and one of the bigger men moves to intercept him.

“We don’t want no trouble, Witcher sir,” he says placatingly, raising both arms, “but ya know how it is now, with Nilfgaard. Supplies are short since Cintra fell.”

Geralt makes a considering noise low in his throat as he realizes who is being robbed. Jaskier offers him a meek wave and grunts when the man still close to him punches him in the gut for his cheek. The bard’s heart is beating rabbit-fast in his chest - Geralt hears it racing from where he stands across the clearing. 

“Let him go,” the Witcher says as he unsheathes his sword and raises it in warning, “or I will make you.”

“He’s got an elven lute,” the closest man says to him, shaking his head. “Sorry Witcher, find yourself another sorry sod, this one’s taken.”

“This one’s taken by _me_ ,” Geralt snarls, darting forward and shoving his sword right through the man’s gut. He dies with a gurgle, Geralt already stepping over his corpse to reach the man near Jaskier, who grabs the bard by the arm and wrenches it up behind his back. Jaskier yelps and twists, but the man brings a dagger to his throat and bares his teeth at the Witcher standing in front of him, snarling and holding a blade dripping with his comrade’s blood. 

“I will give you a merciful death if you release him,” the Witcher promises, his voice a low growl. “If you spill one drop of his blood, you will suffer as you cannot imagine suffering.” 

Geralt grins when the man’s pulse jumps in his throat. The bandit swallows hard, eyes darting between Geralt’s bloody sword and the sensitive skin of Jaskier’s neck. 

“D-don’t be stupid,” Jaskier says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out hoarse. “Geralt is an honorable man - let me go, and your death will be quick.” 

“Shut up,” the bandit snarls, and the hand holding the blade against fragile skin twitches minutely. The blade is sharp, and Geralt hears Jaskier’s low gasp of pain as the scratch left begins to drip blood down the lean line of his throat. The Witcher snarls. The bandit drops the dagger and shoves Jaskier away from him before taking off into the dark of the forest. 

Geralt considers chasing after him as he listens to him crash through the dense woods until he hears a soft noise from behind him. He turns to see Jaskier approaching him.

“Thank you,” the bard says immediately, “for saving my skin. Again.”

Geralt hums and leads Jaskier back to his camp. He gestures at the open bedroll and Jaskier settles into it with little fanfare while the Witcher chooses a tree some distance away to meditate. They bunk down for the night, and once more, the forest is quiet around their camp. The silence lasts for long enough that Geralt feels himself slipping into meditation. Suddenly, a rustling from nearby pulls his attention back, and he nearly growls with frustration as his eyes open and his ears strain. The moonlight in the clearing is enough for his keen eyes to make out Jaskier shifting in the bedroll several feet away from him. 

Thinking the bard may be having a nightmare, Geralt moves to rise and wake him. He freezes when he hears the bard let out a quiet whimper and takes a moment to scent the air. There is no fear or distress in the wind - only Jaskier’s fresh sunshine and clean linen smell. It’s spicier than normal - it almost tickles the Witcher’s sensitive nose. The rustling noises increase, and Geralt hears Jaskier let out a pained whine before a choked gasp leaves him. Silence falls over the camp for a brief moment until the soft sound of Jaksier’s snores replace the sounds of his pleasure. Geralt doesn’t rest.

  * **Smell**



Jaskier grimaces and hands off the sodden laundry to a horrified maid. His nose wrinkles when he turns back to face the room, eyes catching on the Witcher sitting in his bath, covered in selkiemore guts. The Witcher in question offers a sardonic twitch of his lips. Jaskier sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“How did you even know I was here?” he demands as he approaches the tub, his hands on his hips. “Are you following me, Geralt?” He’s teasing and Geralt knows it. 

“I didn’t,” the Witcher answers, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn bit of viscera. “But the selkiemore, I knew that was here.”

Jaskier laughs and shakes his head, bewildered. “Right,” he mutters to himself as he rolls the sleeves of his tunic up. “Give me the soap, your hair is revolting. You stink like death and destiny in a _bad_ way this time, Witcher.”

“My sense of smell is much better than yours and I think I smell fine,” Geralt shoots back. Jaskier perks up with interest as he works a lather into Geralt’s hair. 

“Maybe you’re just used to it. I know I have to switch perfumes regularly or I can’t smell it at all.”

“You always smell the same under all that shit anyways,” Geralt says, waving a hand. Jaskier stops scrubbing. 

“You can smell _people_?” he demands. 

“Uh. Yes?”

“Dunk. What do I smell like?”

Geralt dunks and emerges, blowing out a breath. “What?”

“Do I stink? Do I smell bad?”

“No, Jaskier, you smell fine,” the Witcher answers, rolling his eyes and standing. Jaskier hands him a bath sheet and takes it once he’s done drying off, tossing it into the small wicker hamper in the room.

“Well, what do I smell like?” he presses after Geralt is dressed and sitting on the rickety chair in their room while the bard combs out his hair.

Geralt sighs. “I don’t know, Jaskier. Clean. Like freshly-washed linens and buttercups on a breeze. Like warmth and sunshine. Sometimes your scent is a little spicy - like a mulled wine.” He shrugs, suddenly embarrassed. Jaskier hums behind him, clearly pleased. “It’s...pleasant,” the Witcher finishes. “Much better when you don’t cover it up with all those cheap perfumes and oils.”

Jaskier smacks the comb lightly on the crown of Geralt’s head. “Those are not _cheap_ ,” he insists. 

Geralt rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. 

“You smell nice too, usually,” Jaskier whispers into the dark, shortly after they’re settled in for the night. “I know I tease you but you smell manly. Like sweat and horse and leather. It took a while to get used to, but now, well,” Jaskier cuts himself off with a chuckle. “Now it makes me feel safe.” Geralt doesn't answer, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to expect him to speak, because he rolls over after his quiet confession and immediately begins to snore.

  * **Touch**



The first time they touch, Geralt punches Jaskier in the stomach and knocks the wind out of him. Jaskier gasps and sputters for air, cheeks red, and Geralt resolutely ignores the sinking feeling in his gut that he has done something horrible. He _is_ horrible, he reminds himself. He is a monster, and the sooner this pretty bird realizes it, the better for him and Geralt both. Proving once and for all that he has not an ounce of self-preservation, Jaskier follows Geralt anyway. 

“What is it we’re hunting again?” Jaskier asks as he meanders behind Geralt. They are in the kingdom of Aedirn and they are hunting a bruxa, which the bard very well knows. Geralt knows that Jaskier chatters to fill silence, especially when he’s nervous, so when the bard falls silent behind him he turns quickly to make sure Jaskier is still with him. The bard is nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” the Witcher mutters. The bruxa got the drop on them, and now Jaskier is most likely being fed on while Geralt spins in circles, trying to follow the scent of them. He hears a twig snapping and takes off, silent as he moves and then he spots the bruxa, bent over the prone bard with her teeth buried in his throat. Geralt snarls, and she pulls away to look at him with an imperious gaze, her lips red and dripping with blood. His bard’s blood. He roars and lunges forward, and the bruxa parries and swipes at him with a clawed hand. He curses as her sharp nails rip through his leather bracer and draw blood, but the stinging is quickly forgotten as she steps in to follow up. He surprises her with a sign, blasting her back and onto the ground.

She scrambles to sit up, but Geralt is faster. By the time she’s on her knees, he’s already on her, silver sword swinging. She screams in fury and pain, but Geralt doesn’t even wait for her head to drop from her body before he hurries over to Jaskier. The bard is awake, blinking at him with hazy eyes.

“Geralt,” he murmurs, voice soft and wondrous. 

“Jaskier,” the Witcher returns, tilting the bard’s head to examine his wound. “How are you feeling?”

“Warm,” Jaskier answers immediately. As if speaking it aloud has made it worse, he begins to strip off his doublet and undershirt, leaving his chest bare. Geralt notes the sweat and licks his lips, the wound on his forearm burning. “Please touch me,” the bard whispers, and his voice breaks. Geralt’s chest breaks wide open in response, and he reaches out for the bard’s wrist as he drops to his knees next to him. Jaskier’s skin is burning as Geralt presses them together, and he can feel it even through his armor. Jaskier’s fingers, clumsy and shaking, are trying to work on the buckles with little success. Geralt growls low in his throat, and the bard stops moving immediately, staring up at the Witcher with a question in his eyes.

“Let me,” Geralt says roughly, and he pulls himself away to strip his armor off efficiently. When he returns to Jaskier, his chest is bare as well, and when they touch it’s like aloe on a burn, soothing and cool. They chase the feeling, kissing and touching on their knees in the dirt with the blood from both Jaskier and the bruxa smearing between them. They both strain in their pants, aching to be closer, but Geralt refuses to let his guard down too much in the middle of the woods with a bruxa corpse behind them, and so he distracts the bard’s fumbling attempts to get his cock out by grinding his hips forward sinuously and bumping their clothed cocks together.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, whining and thrusting forward helplessly in response. They start a fast, brutal rhythm, Geralt’s fingertips digging bruises into Jaskier’s skin as he holds him by the hips to rut against him. Jaskier spills first, letting out a soft cry as he comes into his breeches. The scent of him, salty and musky, hits Geralt’s nose and the Witcher groans as he comes shortly after, burying his face in Jaskier’s sweaty shoulder and kissing mindlessly at the skin, running his lips over it as the bard shivers in his arms.

“Well,” Jaskier says lightly after a moment of silence, just the two of them panting as they regain their breaths, “that was a rather successful hunt, I’d say.”

  * **Taste**



Jaskier looks gorgeous on his knees in front of Geralt in the small room they had rented early in the evening. He sits with his hands resting on his thighs, head tilted up to meet Geralt’s gaze as the Witcher studies him. 

“You look perfect,” Geralt compliments, and Jaskier preens, shoulders straightening a bit more. He’s already naked, but Geralt still wears his breeches and he unlaces them unhurriedly, smirking privately at the way Jaskier’s wide eyes focus on his hands as they reach into the loosened breeches to pull his considerable cock out. 

“You think you can handle this?” he asks conversationally, giving himself a few slow, lazy tugs as he swells to full hardness. A pearl of precome beads on the tip of his cock, and he smooths it down with his thumb. Jaskier’s mouth is watering.

“At least let me try,” he murmurs, quiet and reverent as his hands come up to reach for the Witcher’s thighs. Geralt lets Jaskier tug him closer and sighs in pleasure at the first gentle press of the bard’s tongue to the tip of his cock. He collects the fluid there and gives a cheeky suck before sinking down further, lips stretching wide. Geralt lets Jaskier take his time, and the bard relishes in lavishing attention on the Witcher’s thick cock until Geralt can stand it no longer and hauls the bard up to him by the arms. Their mouths press together urgently and Geralt’s tongue sweeps inside Jaskier’s mouth to chase his own taste. 

“How do I taste, bard?” Geralt teases, biting lightly at the smaller man’s full lower lip. Jaskier gasps, pressing their mouths together for a moment before pulling back to answer.

“Like salt and man and destiny,” he manages, and Geralt smirks. 

“Let’s find out what you taste like, songbird, hm?” he croons, and Jaskier nods wordlessly, letting Geralt lead him over to the bed. The Witcher arranges him on his belly with his hips in the air, and Jaskier’s face burns at the exposed position as Geralt spreads his thighs wide to settle his bulk in between them. 

“I’ve never -” he begins, but Geralt shushes him as he runs his wide hands up and down the backs of Jaskier’s thighs and over his ass.

“I know, songbird. I’ll be gentle. You’ll enjoy this, I promise.” 

Before Jaskier can parse the tone in Geralt’s voice, the Witcher spreads his cheeks and blows lightly over his hole. The bard gasps, hips twitching, and Geralt grins, pressing a soft kiss over the sensitive skin to feel it against his mouth. He inhales and groans at the scent of the bard here, where he’s most vulnerable. It’s intoxicating, and Geralt lets his tongue dart out to tease over the wrinkled pucker of skin to taste. Musk. Salt. Sunshine and buttercups. He growls and wraps his long fingers around Jaskier’s thighs to hold him in place as he sets to licking with intent. Jaskier moans as Geralt pries him open around his tongue and fingers, hips rocking as he comes into the bedding, the friction proving too much. Geralt smirks at the twitching of the muscle around his fingers as Jaskier’s cries rise in pitch.

“Too much, Geralt, please!” he whines, but Geralt continues to carefully circle his swollen prostate with his sword-calloused fingertips. 

“Shh,” he soothes, running a hand down one of Jaskier’s sweating, trembling thighs. The muscle twitches, and Geralt bites at the dimple in the base of the bard’s spine as he pulls his fingers out. Jaskier sags for a moment and Geralt lets him as he oils his own cock. When he’s ready, Geralt hikes the bard back up by his hips.

“No, Geralt, I can’t,” Jaskier protests, pulling away. The Witcher hums consideringly. 

“What if you ride me, hm?” he offers. “You can control it.” 

Jaskier looks at him for a moment before nodding, and they rearrange themselves so that Geralt sits with his back against the headboard, Jaskier straddling his powerful thighs.

“Go ahead, darling,” the Witcher says, voice rough. “Sit down.” He holds his cock steady as the bard lowers himself down, brow furrowing as his thighs and belly tense with strain. He seats himself slowly, panting once his cheeks are flush against Geralt’s sharp hip bones. The Witcher smirks at him and gently takes him by the back of the neck, pulling him into a kiss and licking into his mouth.

Once Geralt has pumped Jaskier full of come, the bard flops onto his stomach and sprawls out uselessly as he catches his breath. Geralt washes himself briskly and then catches sight of the bard’s spread thighs, the come dripping down over his balls, and his mouth waters at the thought of tasting the two of them together. He can’t resist, sliding onto the bed silently. Jaskier cries out when Geralt touches his tongue to his sore, swollen hole, but he spreads his legs and lets Geralt bring him to another lazy climax, licking into him leisurely while Jaskier strokes himself off. The bard lets Geralt clean him up and together, they change the sheets.

Laying entwined, Jaskier asks, “What do we taste like together?”

“Absolutely perfect,” Geralt responds, tightening his grip.


End file.
